


Crescendo (Hair down, Moonlit)

by FenixDown



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Flip Fuck, Fucking, LIKE THE LIIIGHTEST d/s, Light Dom/sub, Lingerie, Nonbinary Apprentice (The Arcana), Other, Pegging, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fill, Strap-Ons, Sub Julian Devorak, Submissive Character, intersex apprentice, ive gone too far okay I JUST LOVE SINCLAIR
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 07:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FenixDown/pseuds/FenixDown
Summary: Sinclair dresses Julian up to their liking. Then uses him to their liking.





	Crescendo (Hair down, Moonlit)

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt was Zip Me - I’ll write a drabble about your character dressing mine, or the other way around
> 
> someone got carried away ........ It's me, I got carried away.....
> 
> Apprentice/MC Sinclair belongs to [@bloodlot](https://bloodlot.tumblr.com/)

His instinct is to gasp at the sudden cincture of his waist, clawing uselessly at the surface of the vanity, scraping flakes of paint beneath his nails. But the ingress of air is wrenched expeditiously from his lungs, scraping his throat raw as Sinclair jerks the laces of the corset taut and ties them with a quick hand. His thighs unravel, useless. Knees buckle beneath him, and Julian pitches further into the anchor of the vanity’s edge, holding himself up with a stubborn disgrace. His breaths come shallow as the stricture of the black brocade tightens further, leaving him nearly breathless by design. 

Julian peers over the peak of his shoulder to watch Sinclair behind him, only to be met with the bunt of their forehead to his temple. A preamble to teeth that sink into the swell of his cheek, holding him in place as their hand sinuates around the length of his throat like a portent. A warning. A herald. 

And when their lithe, purloiner’s fingers give a slow, indolent squeeze upon the column of his throat, perfectly poised to the points beneath his jaw, Julian’s breath hitches inelegantly, half between a sigh and surprise. But he melts with the obedience of a most delicate deliquescence, fitting himself against the length of the statuesque magician behind him, every curve and bend of his body conformed to them. As pliable, as yielding as sun-warmed clay. 

He reaches behind to fist his slender fingers through heavy, snow-white hair, drawing them as close as he can, longing for the heat of that silken mouth at that delicate skin beneath the bell of his ear. But Sin wrenches his hand from where it knots artfully in their pale hair, and slams it down upon the surface of the vanity. “Hands on the table,” they instruct, their breath warm upon the shell of his ear. “And don’t move them until I say so.”

Julian’s breathless as he follows their command, his other hand rising to join the other in a symmetrical accord. His fingers spread like the wings of a dove, palms press flat to the long, vicious scrape rent across the wood’s grain from his own nails. Auburn curls fall over ash-grey eyes, obscuring only half his sight when he peers into the vanity’s mirror to watch Sin loom behind him.

It’s then that he can feel the ghost of the weighted glass grace the backs of his silk-clad thighs, feel Sin push it between the clasp of them, slip smoothly along the lace that swathes his cock. Julian whimpers softly, a low, keening sound that weaves through the trifling breaths he’s limited to. “Sin,” he pleads, breathless, as his head tips back over the sill of their shoulder. He feels the hand at his throat move upwards, Sin’s index finger now pressed to the apex of his chin, holding him fast. “Sin, please—”

Their middle finger taps indolently upon the point of his jaw. “What have I said about asking nicely?” Sinclair brings a hand down on the outside of Julian’s thigh in a stinging slap, reaching between his legs to part them roughly. The silk of his stocking snag upon the floorboards as he loses his footing, but whatever balance he’s regained is lost again when he feels the ingress of the glass dildo’s head pressed to his hole.

The lace scratches at the sensitive furl, and Julian’s sigh stutters from pale, parted lips angled heavenward, that beg a silent reprieve to the sky. “What’s that?” Sinclair asks, the question so sweetly posed, high and teasing as he pushes the barest breadth of that dildo’s head within him. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

Julian tries to swallow down a gasp, then gives up, letting his head loll to the side, away from the grasp of their hand. “I want to suck your cock.”

He can feel Sinclair stop, feel the draught of their quiet laugh upon his naked shoulders, the drag of their lips, the tip of their nose across the bow of his shoulders, down the vale of his spine. Their nails scrape unceremoniously down his back when they grab him by the corset and pull him to the carpet. “I don’t have to tell you to get on your knees, do I?” Sinclair asks, even as Julian falls upon them in ready submission. 

Their elegant fingers thread affectionately through his auburn curls, watching as his head tips back with the encouragement of their hand. Sin pushes their thumb into his mouth, and marks how vehemently he takes to sucking at it, how beatific his expression, how rapt, as his mouth works desperately to please them. 

Sinclair reaches for the little vial of oil that never seems to be too far away from their reach, and draws their thumb from that silken mouth, leaving Julian agape and gasping. And waiting. Patiently waiting. 

A sharp twist of their hips and the dildo strikes at his cheek, grazing over his parted lips. “Wet it,” they command. And Julian swallows their cock down whole. 

He gags a little with how deeply he’s taken them in his mouth, and how vehemently the glass hits the back of his throat. But his eyes flutter shut and he grabs at Sin’s slender hips, pulling them hard to him as he works Sinclair’s cock with a mesmeric desperation that he revels in: tongue swirling circles beneath the underside of glass, cheeks hollowing, sucking them down so deeply he feels the glass at the back of his throat again and again—

Julian reaches for the vial of glass that dangles indolently between their fingers and opens it deftly in one hand. He manages to coat his fingers with the unctuous substance, though he wastes half of it in the process. It earns a light slap from Sinclair, which Julian grins at, but he resumes his work with enthusiasm renewed. 

Julian reaches back to push the lace away, his oil-slicked fingers teasing his own hole. And when he slips two ambitious fingers inside himself, he moans softly around their cock, panting through his nose with his lips still firm around the warmed glass.

Sinclair’s hand slips under his jaw, holding him steady as they draw themselves sharply from his mouth. “Are you pleasuring yourself?” they ask, but the question is without ire, and all amusement. “Without my permission?”

Julian shakes his head. “No. No, I was getting ready for you—” And he’s being pulled to his feet by the rise of that hand, only to be bent over the bed with a rough hand fisting at the crown of his hair. 

Sinclair’s finger hooks within the band of his intimates and twirls the lace around their fingers, pulling it to the side as they spread his perfectly-muscled ass. His hole glistens in the low candle-light, slick with oil. They ease inside him, allowing every delicious inch of their cock sink smoothly inside him. “Is this what you were waiting for?” they ask, holding themselves deep inside him, dildo buried to the hilt.

Julian’s already a gasping, gaping mess, his long fingers claw gravely at the sheets. His teeth snag so violently upon the sheets he’s certain he’s likely punctured a hole in them. “Yes,” he breathes, moans, sighs. “Yes, Sin, please—”

“Do you want me to move?” they ask, the sweetness of the question disarming him for the brutal snap of their hips as they thrust once within him. “Is that what you want?”

Julian’s mouth can do little but mutter unintelligible pleas, half whimpering with wanting. 

Sinclair drives themselves hard within him, and Julian gives a cry that renews with every twitch of their hips, even as they pick up a punishing momentum. He can hardly catch a breath, still sheathed in the unforgiving brocade, but his shoulders round as his back arches artlessly into them. 

“Are you going to cum?” Sinclair demands, their voice low, as caliginous as a fog. Their fingers twist mercilessly in his hair. “Don’t you dare cum without me, Ilyushka.”

Julian nods vaguely, desperately, unable to speak even a nebulous assent. His legs tremble beneath him, knees pressing into each other as he struggles to keep himself up, but he manages to do so with the decorum of a newborn colt.

“Ilya.” And Sinclair’s voice comes as a warning. 

“Yes—” he gasps at last. “I’m close, I’m close—”

Sinclair stops, reaches between his legs to tug softly at his balls, effectively suspending his impending orgasm. They pull out, taking a single, staggering step back, and Julian scrambles to turn around just in time to watch their harness fall from their hips and land uselessly onto the floor. 

Julian lets out a sigh that’s gracelessly interrupted when Sinclair slips their middle and ring fingers between their legs and pushes them into Julian’s mouth as they climb onto the bed. Julian sucks them clean immediately, his face turning like moth to a flame to the exquisite part of Sinclair’s slender thighs. He mouths hotly at their inner thigh, trailing closer to the splendid cleft of their cunt, and manages one long lick from bottom to top before Sinclair catches him by a handful of hair and prevents any more. 

“Fuck me,” Sinclair commands quietly, and Julian gives a soft moan as he falls upon them with a heated kiss. His hands grip hard at their dark thighs, holding them open as he fucks into them with an exigency that burns restless in his own shaking legs.

There’s little grace to way Julian drives into them, with the recklessness of the stunning lunacy they always inspire in him. How he races to bring them to completion, hips audacious, mouth attentive to every curve and line and hollow and swell of their neck, their shoulders, their ethereally beautiful face. It never takes very long between them. Julian can feel their cunt tighten around him before even the telltale part of their lips to allow the gutteral groan that they call to the rafters. Julian laughs, watching Sinclair’s coarse, discordant rhapsody, the twist and torque of their body as it writhes beneath him, and nothing, nothing could be more beautiful than that moment— Until Sinclair’s hips rise and send him off-kilter enough to land him on his back, and the magician promptly mounts him with fuck-hazed grin like victory. 

They’re a vision unparalleled, like a theophany of a dark god, revealing themselves to an undeserving mortal. Sinclair reaches up to undo the clasp of their high ponytail, their heavy, bone-straight hair falling in a brilliant cascade about their shoulders. The tattoos on their neck still glimmer a pale gold, a literal afterglow from their previous orgasm, and Julian can’t help but reach up to touch that evidence of their pleasure with tentative fingers. 

Sinclair allows him with an enigmatic smile, fingers curling delicately around his wrist as they kiss his fingertips with a sweetness that always disarms Julian, even to this day. And when their hips begin their slow canter, Julian laughs with the righteousness of unadulterated and unabashed joy. Sex had always been an expression of _something_ for him: of lacking, of wanting, of the repletion of a bodily pleasure, of satiation of a vital, vulgar itch. But it’s never been joy. Not until Sinclair.

Sinclair, who looks down at him with a deific grace, with an adoration so complete and completing that Julian can feel nothing but loved in his entirety. Who allows him to feel safe within the devotion of their arms, to be a naked as he is bare, as vulnerable as a wound.

And when they call his name, _llya_, how wondrous does the name of his ill-fortuned past sound upon their lips. Loved and lauded. Like a veneration of vespers. Julian can feel the tightness beyond his navel, the warmth that floods his thighs, and uselessly does he fight to stem the tide of that orgasm—

But a cry precedes Sinclair’s slump forward, hands flush to his chest, palms upon the brocade as fingers claw ruthlessly across his skin, scoring it a ruby-red raw. Sinclair comes in a rebellious rush, hips brusque and brutal as they plunge down again and again to ride out their orgasm. Julian is rapt at the sight of them, the way they up like a constellation of cicatrices, tattoos flashing gold, glimmering warm and brazen through the spate of their little death.

So he doesn’t notice the sweep of their thumb across his chest, to close about his nipple, pinching it firmly against their proximal knuckle. “Come, Ilya,” Sinclair whispers, golden eyes flashing beneath inky lashes. “Come for me, _krasavets._” 

And he does, obediently, dutifully, gasping as the surge overtakes him, just before the crash of his climax sends him into an ascendancy of controlled convulsions. He can hardly catch enough of a breath, and instinctively his body panics, but the lightheadedness carries him to a too-beautiful empyrean bliss as he empties himself inside them. 

Sinclair clenches with a laugh, working their hips slowly to draw every last drop out of him, stopping only when Julian grips their thighs to halt them. But Sinclair rises to their knees in a swift move, letting Julian spill out of them, over his cock, his stomach, looking down with a benign smile to mark the mess they make. 

Julian catches them by the wrist, yanks them down to him, his arms encircling them with a bold impetuosity to crush them to his chest. He ignores the sticky mess that anoints their thighs, forgotten in their inelegant entanglement. Julian’s hand rakes up the back of Sinclair’s head, from the nape of their neck to their crown, where he holds them fast, demanding kisses as he gasps for air, with a propriety that Sinclair has always encouraged, and loved. 

"You've done so well," Sin commends him, an inconceivable sweetness lacing their words as they push back the auburn curls from his brow to lay a kiss upon it. "You beautiful thing ..."

“I love you,” Julian whispers hoarsely, his eyes shut as if offering up the promise as a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you …” His voice trails away, the litany deadened as his mouth presses to the curve of their throat. Sinclair's arms are a haven, a holy sanctuary, when they circle the bow of his shoulders. And oh, how he unwinds, unravels in the safety and the sanction of their embrace, content that Sinclair knows every facet and nuance of him and loves him still, plays every part for him, completes every shade of wanting with a voluptuous totality that always leaves him wanting more and _more_ still ….


End file.
